Lord of the Damned
by sorainier
Summary: AU with sort-of-magic. Hermione Granger is the "filthy child" born to a mudblood and a pureblood. In the town of Hogsmeade, a pirate named Lord Voldemort does as he pleases. One choice leads her down the wrong road. Curiosity may be the start of her fall. Would she ever be the girl everyone wants her to be? What will she do when the pirate decides to rebuild things from scratch?
1. Chapter 1

**Okay so this is my first PROPER fanfic (emphasize PROPER). It's AU, there will be magic just not in the way you are accustomed to, and it's set in England, about 18** **th** **century. The historical background might not completely make sense to some of you, because I don't have proper knowledge on 18** **th** **century England, and canon pretty much doesn't apply (Snape might be alive. Dumbledore might not be dead. I dunno). And they are OOC. Beware and whatever.**

 **Anyways, thank you for stopping by.**

* * *

Chapter 1: Anywhere Away

She should've listened to her father.

She should've listened to Frau Dolores.

" _Thief!_ " Now the Aurors were hot on her trails.

Hermione stiffened as the footsteps approached, sinking into the shadows that so gratefully covered her presence.

"Over here!" one of them shouted, racing past her. Hermione held her breath, her bodice seemingly tightening every second she withheld her breath.

Cloaked figures followed, their robes billowing behind them as they too raced past her hiding spot. _Idiots,_ Hermione smirked triumphantly as she stood loosening the strings on her bodice. _Can't even catch a plain Fisherman's daughter._ Hermione retied her now loose hair into a chignon. Strands of frizzy hair fell out, falling over her eyes. _No wonder they can't catch Lord Voldemort._ She hummed happily to herself, swinging her basket full of baguettes back and forth as she went on her way home.

The apple she stole from the fruit stand was not of great value. Nor was she so poor that she had to steal a petty apple. _Really, it doesn't even look appealing,_ Hermione frowned, turning the apple in her hand, tossing it around before she shrugged and took a large bite out of it.

"Excuse me miss,"

Hermione squeaked, rubbing away the apple juice staining her chin when a soft voice called.

"Officer! What ever is the matter?" Hermione smiled sweetly, if not a little shaken inside. The officer was a young man, with bright emerald eyes under his blue uniform hat. He mounted on a black stallion, who kept of trudging towards her, nuzzling her arm with his moist nose. _Smelt the apple did you,_ Hermione thought bitterly. _Go away!_

"Sorry to disturb you from your errand miss, but there has been a theft at a fruit stand nearby, and was wondering if you saw any suspicious personas coming this way," the young officer said as he slid off the saddle. The small gleaming nametag on his left chest said POTTER. Hermione's eyes travelled to one of his silver buttons, and her eyes widened ever so slightly at the faint letters carved onto it.

"Head Auror," Hermione muttered, cursing her luck.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, Auror Potter. I haven't seen anything much today, unless you count a tabby cat with split tails?" Hermione said thoughtfully, to which Auror Potter laughed.

"No, I guess not," he smiled. "Thank you for you cooperation Ms. Granger. I am Harry, by the way, Harry Potter. I've met you before, but you forgot. We had a mutual friend, a friend you once called a "best friend", but you forgot. You forgot so many more things, Hermione, but morals should not be one of them. I know of that apple hidden behind the pretty dress you wear," Harry winked.

The young Auror's face was now twisted in a cruel way, smeared green, his red uniform swirling in a mixture of dazzling bright colours; purple, pink, yellow, green… His stallion no longer was a horse, but a lion with wings sprouting from its back. Hermione felt sick. Something seemed to bubble up from the pit of her stomach, acid souring her mouth. Harry's face was now yellow. Hermione watched in amusement and disgust as his face turned into a delicate shade of pink.

"…miss. _Miss,_ are you alright?"

Hermione snapped awake, confused to see a concerned Auror on his horse, pulling at the reigns. As if nothing happened.

"Oh, yes, I'm more than fine," said Hermione, smiling.

The Auror nodded. "I must go now," he said. "Again, I thank you." He swerved his horse around, and trotted back the way he came.

As soon as Hermione made sure the Auror was out of sight, Hermione threw the apple into a bush. _Filthy apple,_ she thought, _never should've trusted Weasley Wheezes._

* * *

 _Head Departments of Coastal Guard_

"Auror Potter has returned, Mr. Shacklebolt,"

"Ah, yes. Let him in," Kingsley waved his hand at his secretary, his eyes remaining focused on the piece of parchment. He sensed Seamus leave the room, soon returning with someone who he assumed was Harry Potter.

"Kingsley," Harry said.

"Harry," Kingsley acknowledged, finally setting the parchment aside. "Any news on Lord Voldemort? Or any of his hunch men for that matter?" he said bitterly.

"No, I'm afraid not," Harry said, a crease appearing between his smooth brows. "However, we confiscated one of his ships. It was abandoned near Hogsmeade Harbour, founded by Captain Dumbledore's men during their patrol," with a sigh, Harry tossed a thick booklet of parchment on Kingsley's desk before slumping down on the seat.

"The ship is called 'Slytherin'? Odd name for a ship," Kingsley noted after a few lousy flip through.

"You say. We've confiscated ships named 'Nagini II', 'Parselmouth', and 'Godric Goddamn You'. They sunk the last one on purpose though. You remember the fireworks at Hogsmeade Harbour on May? Apparently that was it."

Captain Dumbledore arrived just then, his tailcoat flapping at the gust of wind. The Captain was the oldest member of the Department of Coastal Guard. He had his once long grey beard kept short, his glasses took off, and his wig decorated in neat blue ribbons down his back. Dumbledore normally was a calm, generous man, but today he was furious as he slammed his hat down onto Kingsley's desk.

"I need permission to blast that greenhorn into smithereens!" he bellowed. "He has blasted _two_ of our precious ship loaded with countless men and assets! _Three_ that was on its way to India! This is an outrage Shacklebolt! We cannot let this man live! Why you will put him on trial before Azkaban, I would never know. We should let him receive the Kiss as soon as he arrives!"

Even as Dumbledore showered Kingsley with spittle, the man remained indifferent. "Ah, I understand Albus," he said tiredly. "In fact, we shall be going to the Harbour soon; Horace would be waiting."

* * *

 _Granger house_

The Granger house was a small cottage of sorts, facing the sea in which Allen Granger, Hermione's father, worked for a living. He was a rather well known fisherman in the town of Hogsmeade. He was skilled, but he was well known for his background of being a slave in the Americas before his former employer took him in as an adopted child. Hermione's mother was in fact part of the higher society in England, and was therefore shunned by them. _His Majesty Grindelwald doesn't want filthy children in his court._ That's what she overheard her Aunts say at a ball one night. Her father was still deemed inappropriate to raise the child of a pureblood at the time, so she was living with her grandparents. A jolly lot they were, even if they were snobbish purebloods.

"Frau Dolores," Hermione said, kneeling in front of the matron.

"Hermione," the matron replied, looking down her squashed nose. "Now, let's talk about your day." Frau Dolores placed her freckled hand on top of Hermione's as she too, knelt down. "Where were you?"

"At the market, Frau Dolores," said Hermione, not meeting the matron's beady eyes. "Weasley Wheezes? You know of that fresh food market stand down Diagon Alley?"

"Of course I know child," Dolores huffed. "Now, are you honest to our Lord Merlin? Do you swear your heart upon his beard?"

"I swear."

The matron continued to look at Hermione. She always did, and Hermione was used to it. But today, Frau Dolores kept on staring as if she was this close to seeing through her eyes. Hermione kept still, looking to the place slightly left to the matron's eyes. This isn't the first time she had stolen something, and nor is it the most expensive. She had stolen a Lady's glove once, and no one had noticed.

"May Merlin bless you," Frau Dolores muttered after a long time. "Now go along and help your father. I have heard he is going to the harbour. I will see to it that he will not carry the heavy load by himself?"

"Of course not," Hermione muttered. "Stupid toad."

* * *

 _At the Harbour_

Hogsmeade Harbour was said to be the most beautiful harbour to be found on any surface of the planet, to which Hermione was proud to. They were walking down the busy streets of Diagon Alley now, her and her father, where they were holding the weekly Sunday morning market.

"Ice mice just imported from Greenland! Honeydukes sells the best candy!"

"Get your old clothes anew at Malkin's!"

"Get your chilly hands warmed at Three Broomsticks! Butterbeer! Eggnog!"

It was rather enjoying wandering through the streets, trudging through the crowd and doing nothing. Tension seemed to leave her when she thought of nothing and simply let it be.

"Oi Allen! Over here!"

Rubeus Hagrid waved over at them with a large jug of firewhiskey in his hand.

"Firewhiskey at this hour, Hagrid?" Hermione laughed as she gave the big man a hug. "How's Fang?"

"Ah, Fang is a bit I'll at the moment 'ermione," Hagrid sniffed, dabbing away at the tears with his also very large handkerchief. "He's been miserable for three days, I tell ya! I got 'im to the vet, but they say it's helpless. And they call themselves vet!" Hagrid roared, slamming his fist down on the wooden table. The wood cracked slightly. People sitting around them turned with fear and surprise in their eyes, as Hermione noticed some were scooting away.

"There, there Hagrid," Allen placed his hand on Hagrid's arm. "We're here on business, not psychology talking."

Hermione left the two men then, for she knew how boring the talk could get. Her father wouldn't mind. Rather, he would be glad that she was gone. Their relationship had been somewhat awkward these few months after he had discovered a stash of stolen books beneath her bed. She had convinced him that they were Myrtle's, a girl working as an apprentice librarian, but he didn't seem to believe in her. It seems like no one did these days.

Just as she was about to enter Honeydukes to bewitch herself in its gorgeous sent, a movement caught her eye. Between Honeydukes and Flourish and Blotts was a gap, barely wide enough for a grown man to wedge through. What she saw hadn't been a cat, for it was too large to be one. _So it must be a man,_ Hermione thought, _no girl around here would go in there. Unless she's working for the pirates or something._ Looking around her to see that no one was paying attention, Hermione slipped through the narrow gap.

 **A/N: Too long? Too short? Too boring? Well know that it will get interesting later on… or at least that's what I'm planning on. Thanks! Whoever made it down here!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! It's me again!**

 **So this is the second chapter. Tell us if it's good or not :)**

Chapter 2: The Grasshopper

* * *

 _At the Palace_

"… _illegitimate child. That's what I've heard, Eleanor!"_

"… _ugly mother!"_

"… _in the dungeons?"_

"… _Grand Duke Riddle's upset…"_

"… _poor Elizabeth, she's devastated…"_

"… _get a go at him?"_

" _Oh Patricia!"  
Flirting giggles. The soft sound of glass clinking. The sound of the fireplace crackling. Oh how he just wished the fire would burn them all, burn them inside out like – _

" _Tom?" a soft voice called. The boy went rigid in his hiding spot. His mother, Merope Gaunt looked at him apparently crossed. Tom eyed her thin grey servants dress with disdain._

" _Yes, how may I help you?" Tom replied with a genuine smile. He dusted at his room wear, taking a step back from his mother._

" _Tom…"_

" _Are you lost?" Tom said sharply. His mother visibly flinched, but he gave it no mind. How dare this woman talk to him? As if she was an equal? Filthy slut. Tom shuddered._

"… _No, I'm sorry to have bothered you."_

" _Hm," Tom said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Say, is that your scissors? In your apron? May I borrow that for a while? Thank you," Tom said, twirling the silver scissor in his long, pale fingers. "You may leave."_

 _His mother scattered into the darkness. Like a rat, Tom thought._

 _The ladies were now a bit drunk. Their voices were slurred together, the giggles now more often. He knew for a fact that Marietta Edgecombe was in this little gathering. He was her betrothed. His father arranged it for him. Not out of kindness, no, not really. He was still the child of a Grand Duke, not matter how illegitimate he was. Edgecombe was only the daughter of a Count. Which is below him, of course._

" _Good evening ladies," Tom entered the room. His hands were behind his back, clutching the silverware._

" _My, if it isn't Tom!" a girl giggled as she toppled over her chair._

" _Tommy!" Marietta whined pathetically, throwing her arms around his waist. Tom clenched his teeth together._

" _I was just wondering down the hall when I heard your merry laughter," Tom said nonchalantly, quietly closing the door behind him. The drunken girls, however, did not notice his pale lips twitch in a twisted sort of way. "I was wondering if I could join." The door clicked shut. "I was rather bored."_

 _Marietta was laughing. The woman stank heavily of alcohol; a sweet smell that seemed to burn its way through the insides of his nostrils. Tom inhaled deeply. The silver object slipped into Tom's nimble fingers… and…and…_

 _Something slipping between his fingers. Tom rubbed the sticky liquid between his thumb and index finger. He placed his finger in his mouth. It tasted…good._

"… _TOM!"_

"… _Lord save me…allow the holy angels to protect me… oh god PLEASE!"_

" _What the… TOM!"_

 _It was all eerily quiet then. Tom's bare foot was pale against the most beautiful crimson carpet. Everything was all quiet and sticky and red and fragrant and…_

The Grand Duke's son twitched in his sleep.

Tom laughed softly, looking down at his sweaty pyjamas. He wiped his forehead, looking amused at the sweat glistening under the moonlight.

It wasn't the first time he'd dreamt of… his first time. Tom slumped back on the duvets, grinning broadly as he recounted that day's events. Marietta had been the first. He remembered being fascinated by the delicate stream of blood pouring down her pale neck, making the neck of her dress blossom red.

Slipping through the doors, Tom walked silently down the hall. He ran his fingers along the delicate designs of the wall, twirling his finger along with the golden patterns. His bare foot made a slightly moist sound as he walked. However, in the dead of night no one was there to notice.

Stopping in front of a tall, marble door, Tom rapped on it thrice. With a small creak, the door opened slightly.

"Tom?" a woman appeared at the door, wrapped tightly in sleeping robes. Apparently she was deep in sleep, for her voice was cracked and raspy. She rubbed her eyes, frowning at the man in front of her.

"Walburga," said Tom. "I'm terribly sorry if I have awoken you. It's just –" Tom leaned into her ear. "– It seems that I have trouble sleeping."

"Oh," Walburga said, the drowsiness gone, replaced instead by enthusiasm. She gave a small giggle, and opened the door wide. "Well, I'm sure my bed is large enough for two people."

* * *

 _Horace Slughorn_

Horace Slughorn was known to be the man of jolliness. He was the Head Councillor, his personal connections were stretched throughout Britain, and what's more, he was the favourite of His Majesty Grindelwald. He was used to getting the easy way out, always having the best of all things. So it is not much of a surprise to say that he was not used to sitting on the hard wooden chair at the Leaky Cauldron, nor being stared at by three of the best Aurors of the age.

"So Horace, tell us how business has been these days. I've heard you've earned almost a fortune by selling that book of yours! 'On My Way to Wealth', am I right?" Albus laughed, stabbing at the shrimp on his plate.

"Ah, Albus, you always make us laugh!" Horace said nervously, twirling his thumb and drinking a lot more firewhiskey than usual. "It's 'My Galleons and I' actually."

"Horace, I'm sure you know why we're here," said Harry. He lent forward, plastered a smile on his face, trying to coax some information out of the old man's sealed lips with sweet words. "We merely need information about Voldemort's whereabouts, and we all know well that you have connections everywhere. Please, won't you lend us a hand to defeat him? I've heard he's bombed one of your ships. Don't you want to get back at him for it?"

"Well… yes, of course I do!" Horace stuttered. "But what can you do about it, eh? Jamander Sharmeth. Still missing, I've heard. What happens if _I_ end up like _that_?" he hissed, slamming his fists down on the table. "Do I have to give up _all_ the names that went missing or dead _after_ they mingled with Voldemort? Eliana Wigglesworth, Thorns Thimblenick, Marcus Mendel, Corianna Talestory, Yan Gardemm, O'Hara Corn, Damon Twiford…"

"Alright!" Shacklebolt said breathlessly. "Alright! We got it. You don't want to help for the greater good, and that's fine with us."

With that, Shacklebolt grabbed his shoulder bag and stormed out of the inn.

"Ah, pay him no mind," said Dumbledore, now merrily pouring a large quantity of milk into his tea, splashing the liquid all over the table, staining his suit. "Oops, excuse me."

"Horace. What is it that we have to do to gain your help?" Harry pleaded.

"I… well…" Horace stuttered, rubbing his wrinkled hands together.

"I know what," Dumbledore piped up, licking the spoon clean, placing it down with a clatter. "Madam Hooch is holding a Poppy Pomfrey Remembrance Day ball. I've been invited – to my utmost pleasure – and I thought you'd like to come with me, Horace! Harry here'll be attending the ball too with his fiancé, I suppose."

"Poppy's dead?" Horace whispered, somewhat confusedly.

"No, no," said Harry hurriedly. "It's just that she's been gone to Germany to learn medics, and we sort of miss her – she's been gone for, uh, two days."

"Ah!" Horace bursted, his ashen face now smooth and healthy pink. "Oh well that's a relief! A ball! Haven't gone to those in two whole weeks! Of course, Albus, I'd be honoured to! But it is a pity Rolanda hadn't invited me herself…"

After half an hour more of good-natured chattering and splashing firewhiskey, Dumbledore and Harry were on their way back to the Head Departments.

"At least the carrot and stick plan worked," Harry said, smiling at a sibling who was watching him with wide eyes, chocolate smeared on their mouths.

"I trust that I will never have to be the carrot again, Harry?" Dumbledore chuckled. "But I suppose Shacklebolt had a great load of fun being the stick. He has to lighten up once in a while!"

"Yes," Harry replied, laughing with Dumbledore at Shacklebolt's acting. However, his expression soon turned sour as he remembered what had happened at the inn.

"But really, Dumbledore, a ball? Poppy Pomfrey Remembrance Day ball? Now _I_ have to make it real! How am I supposed to get the invitations ready, send them out, decorate the place, get the food ready, _and_ get Madam Hooch to agree to be the hostess?" Harry scowled.

"We can always say that dear Albus suffers from terrible memory misplacing, and it was actually Lady McGonagall who will host the party."

Dumbledore winked, smacked Harry on the back (which left him wheezing in the place), and hurried into the building.

* * *

 _In Knockturn Alley_

She'd never been in Knockturn Alley before. Her father, Frau Dolores and almost everyone in between had told her not to, and she had been standing beside her word that she will not…until now.

There were no signs to distinguish this place from Diagon Alley; however, one didn't need one to do so. Hags cloaked in dark robes were hurrying up and down the street, muttering what seemed like curses beneath their breaths as they walked past Hermione.

"…ten galleons for a child's liver. I'll have his heart for free one day…"

The odd shadow Hermione had seen from the other side was now climbing up the stairs three at a time; she had to run after him as to not lose sight. She pushed over several people – one of them looked disturbingly like the criminal on the wanted poster – toppled the display cart, and almost stepped on the tail of a cat.

Hermione didn't know why she was this determined to follow the man – or at least the shadow she believes is a man – but once she starts, she never stops. That was sort of her motto.

Following after the man blindly, it took a moment for Hermione to realize that she was out by the harbour again, close to the ships.

The moment of hesitation costed Hermione her freedom.

"'ullo," the man said, clutching Hermione's hands tightly, clapping his hand down on her mouth. Hermione thrashed, stomping repeatedly on the man's foot. He didn't even make a sound. "What's a young lass like you doing down here? I've noticed you've been following me throughout Knockturn Alley!" the man crackled, but his tone soon became cold. "What for? Did Dumblydore send you?"

"Lemme go," Hermione huffed. "Who are you?"

"Yaxley," the man laughed merrily. "Remember that, will ya? It's Jules Yaxley."

Hermione's eyes widened at that name. The Yaxleys was one of the many flowers of the court, the favourites of Grindelwald. Why would someone of such a high place be in such a low position?

"Our lord would be pleased," Yaxley muttered, and knocked Hermione off her foot.

* * *

 _Aboard the Ship_

Lord Voldemort liked watching the busting streets of Diagon Alley from his window. They were like ants, poor little creatures working hard as not to starve over the winter. And he was the grasshopper, watching the ants do his work for him.

There was a small tap on the door.

"Yes?" Lord Voldemort drawled, puffing smoke from his lips.

"My Lord, it's Yaxley," a muffled voice replied. "He's brought another girl, My Lord. I've told him to sod of, but he insists that this girl is different."

Voldemort sighed. He remembered the night he and his men banished Yaxley from the ranks. A great loss, thinking of his connections to Grindelwald and money, useful as a spy, until that idiot got drunk and leaked precious information to his whore, who had conveniently ran away that night. Voldemort wondered how much money she'd earned from selling that piece of information.

"Well, let the girl in," Voldemort said. "Leave the man outside. Toss him in the sea if you want."

"Of course, My Lord."

Voldemort more likely _heard_ rather than saw the girl coming. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, apparently broke some of his valuable vases, and kneed Malfoy in the groin. Twirling the cigarette in his nimble fingers, Lord Voldemort let a wide, unsettling smile split his face. Stumping the cigarette out, the man stood up, watching over the alley, the smile still apparent on his face. He could _feel_ the pounding of their hearts. He heard a stuttering heartbeat – Abraxas, he thought – a slow, steady heartbeat – this was from Lestrange – and a small, fragile heartbeat, beating at such a speed one might be afraid it would stop dead…if they cared at all.

"Tactics, comrades, tactics," the young Lord muttered amusedly under his breath, watching amusedly as he witnessed a man in soiled clothes attempt to rob a fat wallet, only to be caught by the wrist. The Auror's were soon to join.

The door flung open at the exact moment. Lestrange was limping, he noticed, clutching a girl in a frilly but faded dress. Abraxas was nowhere to be seen, instead Mulciber held tight to her other arm. From the mirror he had purposefully set in the dark corner of his room, he saw the girl Yaxley blabbered on about; a tattered girl with a mess of brown hair. Voldemort tutted slightly, disappointed in Yaxley's work yet again.

"Drop her," Voldemort ordered. The two men dropped the girl, who yelped in surprise as her bottom made contact with the wooden floor.

"Yaxley disappoints me yet again," he proceeded in a leisurely voice, noticing with pleasure as Lestrange and Mulciber shuddered. He snapped his fingers, to which Wormtail – a rather disgusting man who resembled a rat, but of great use – scuttled toward him, a black mask with the image of a skeleton imprinted upon it. With a sigh, and of great reluctance, Lord Voldemort untangled his fingers from behind him, picked the mask up, and placed it gingerly upon his face, before turning to face the girl.

The girl was even more hideous than he thought. Up close, he spotted faint freckles. _Imperfections_ , Voldemort thought. He watched as the girl swallow at his appearance, glaring at him here and there, a criticizing look in her eyes.

"Who are you?" the girl spat.

Lestrange, Mulciber and Wormtail took in a sharp breath.

"I," Voldemort continued smiling underneath the mask, rocking back and forth on his heels, "am Lord Voldemort, Miss…?"

"Bulstrode," the girl almost snapped.

Voldemort's smile became broader; he had not missed her eyes drift from her face, and unfortunately for her, he was friendly with the true Bulstrode family.

"Ah, Millicent Bulstrode, is it?"

The girl suddenly looked frightened. Lord Voldemort enjoyed her discomfort immensely.

"Strange, you seem a little… _slimmer,_ should I say, since the last time we've met. And, pray tell, did you bleach your hair? I'm quite surprised your father allowed you to do so."

The girl remained silent, squirming on her bottom.

"Lestrange, get Malfoy to prepare tea, and," – he looked down at her disdainfully – "some adequate clothing."

* * *

 _St. Mungo's_

Room 301 of the Janus Thickey Ward was frequent to appear on the visitor's list. Samantha Fawcett, former Ravenclaw and now a mere receptionist at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, knew for a fact that no one received as many visitors as the patient in Room 301. Today she had a squad of poorly clothed but enthusiastic red-heads all lining up to sign their names. Samantha had told them that not everyone was required to write whilst eyeing the younger children, but the plump woman at the front had only waved her hand and exclaimed, "Nonsense!" before scribbling her name on the parchment. Samantha pulled the pad of paper out, snickering to herself at the unintelligible scribble of a boy who had a brother carry him to write his name.

"Samantha? Would you help me carry the tea to Helbert's office?"

"Yes of course Miriam."

Samantha carried the tray with little confections.

"You're too kind, Samantha…lovely dress by the way…"

"It's actually my sister's…your taste in hats is quite wonderful too…"

The booklet of the visitors list lay there forgotten, the leaves flapping helplessly every time one walked by.

* * *

 **A/N Hope it wasn't too short. The names Slughorn blabbered are purely random, and has no significance!**


	3. Chapter 3

My computer apparently thought my writing wasn't worth saving. Thank you so much **fspsarcastic** , **tneha** (you two are my first ever reviewers! xx) **meowmers** and **Conan the Barbarians Girl** for reviewing! Happy dance! Also, thank you all that has favourited and alerted this story:)

* * *

Chapter 3: Ship to Wreck

* * *

 _Aboard the ship_

Hermione couldn't recall a time she had been as humiliated as now before in her life.

Her father might've been one of the best fishermen in Hogsmeade, but that didn't mean he was reliable in his income; after all, you couldn't really expect a fisherman to have a steady, or large income. The sea was a moody thing, and she'd seen her father return soaked but empty handed more than she would've liked. She'd been reproachful of her mother during her younger years as she watched the upperclass children played in the courtyard while she did their laundry. But at least, they had a comfortable and clean home with fire crackling in the fireplace. It was dry, warm, and cosy. This hell ship was moist, cold and uncomfortable. It didn't even have a chair to sit on! _If only her mother had left_ _them some of her heritage..._

Several hours had passed since Hermione was thrown into the cell by that man she kneed in the groin –such a grudge holder, that man – with much more force than needed. Water was leaking in some places, mould spreading across the corner of the ceiling like vermin. It reminded her terribly of a story her aunt once told of Azkaban: mould and dead rats feasting on corpses, a place where even the brightest sun would lose its light.

Grunting, Hermione began banging against the door with her full might.

"Oi! Keep it down, you bitch!" The guard smacked his fist against the wooden door angrily.

Someone, to Hermione's ears, sounded really upright and posh. Someone that was having a hard time using languages such as 'oi' and 'bitch' in a casual conversation without sounding stiff.

With one last bitter bang on the door, Hermione sat down, pressing her thighs against her chest. Come to think about it, all those men outside weren't as barbaric as she thought pirates should be. That blond also spoke in a posh accent, and carried himself in an air of superiority. Except in front of Voldemort, of course. And about Voldemort; what was with that mask? Did he think it would make him look intimidating? And what about that drunkard that she most unfortunately had to meet at the harbour? Hermione vaguely recalled him being a Yaxley. Hermione sighed, fatigue creeping into her young face for the first time in the day.

The ship rocked back and forth. Fortunately Hermione wasn't one to get seasick, or else her stay would've been a very unpleasant one. She sighed again, leaning her head against the wall before closing her eyes and drifted asleep.

 _...probably victims of torture, I tell you...depression seeping out of their very_ _presence!..._

There was a small, circular window in the cell, though it was covered in some cloth so it was useless when it came to telling time. Hermione felt as if she had slept for over a week but there was no telling. What would my father say, if he ever was to land his eyes on me? Hermione thought, a frown marring her face. She nibbled on her thumbnail, before pulling away harshly and tucking it between her thighs. She may not know the time, but she knew she badly needed to empty her bladder.

"Hey!" Hermione screeched at the top of her lungs.

"And I said keep. It. _Down!_ " came the angry holler.

"I need to use the bathroom you son of a pest!"

There was a brief silence beyond the door. Hermione scowled. This was not funny at all. Her bladder threatened to burst, and she was rather sure the men would not give her any spare clothing.

"I... I beg you please, I might get cystitis! I, I'll sue you! I'm a, an acquaintance of Head Auror Potter!" Hermione screeched. It was a lie obviously, but no one needed to know that. Auror Potter would probably be glad his name saved a woman from getting cystitis!

There was a brief silence. Then with a click, the door opened. Hermione sniggered when she saw the man standing outside. Well, if it wasn't Mr. Grudge-Holder himself.

"Hurry up please!" Hermione cried, digging her nails deep into the man's arm. Deep enough to draw blood. _Hope he gets infected somehow_. _Hope someone rubs mice shit into his arms_.

The blond twitched his thin lips, gripped Hermione's arm and dragged her down the corridor.

* * *

 _A Poppy Pomfrey Remembrance Day Ball_

Madam Hooch was often the source of gossip between the court women, when any new or interesting gossip was scarce. Single at the age of 53, Madam Hooch was considered the best example of a failure by those short-sighted women whom thought that having no children or husband was worse than having no life at all. The men also liked to bully her for her appearance. "Look at her hair, Narcissa!" Cygnus Black III, an old classmate of Madam Hooch who had three girls would often tell his youngest child every time she passed them in the corridor. "Do you see her hair? That's what happens when you don't listen to your parents; make mistakes like cutting your hair." The last bit was snarled at her.

This was her reputation between those conceited men and women of the court; however, her image was much better between the commoners and Aurors alike. Her father was one of the most treasured Aurors in his era —the man who solved the McKenna murders and unveiled the existence of Lord Voldemort— and for that, she was greatly respected in the office. Between the commoners, she was hailed as a hero for sending a helping hand wherever needed, and also as one of the women who knew more than the name of dresses and hairstyles.

"Madam Hooch, I cannot express my thanks to you," Harry clutched his former horse riding instructor's hand, sighing deeply as he chugged down his Butterbeer. "Fire away if you want anything. Actually, I think Ginny baked you an apple pie..."

"Potter, no need to thank me. Rather I should thank you for getting my goddaughter off my shoulders; bugged me to hold a ball for twenty years!"

"Rolanda, I never knew you had a goddaughter," Slughorn tutted, sipping his Firewhiskey. "I thought we were friends! How come there is so much I don't know these days? Are you people ditching me?" Feigning a worried expression, Slughorn waved hello at a couple passing by. "Should I be worried?"

"Do not fret, Horace. You were there, merely drunk to a state of unconsciousness."

It was almost noon. Fat men and corset-bound ladies filtered in, one by one, filling the air with giggles and laughter. The hall was now almost full, when a ripple of gasps spread from the entrance.

"What's happening?" Harry whispered to Madam Hooch, going on his tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the reason of the commotion. "Did you invite any celebrities to this...uh... _Poppy Pomfrey_ _Remembrance Day_ _Ball?"_

"Not that I know of," the hostess tutted, excusing herself and weaved herself through the crowd to the front.

"...yes yes, thank you. Why, don't you look ravishing yourself, Madam Rosmelda..."

"Tom?" Only when the men and women whipped to turn around did Madam Hooch notice that she had spoken aloud.

The couple that caught the attention of the entire ball turned. The man —Tom— held a cold look of disdain for a moment, before his face broke into a boyish grin.

"Rolanda! How have you been? Ever since my father died, I bet!"

Embracing her friend's son, Madam Hooch couldn't help but feel a little odd by this show of affection. Young Tom never liked her, not once, because he'd always had this suspicion that his father was cheating on his mother with her. That was nonsense of course; Thomas had been a bit weak in guts (basically a coward), and his snarky comments towards her appearance didn't help improve her affection towards him. However the fact that they were childhood friends could not be changed, so that was that. Nothing more.

"I've been fine, Tom. Congratulations on your engagement," Madam Hooch held the young man by the arms and gave him small pecks on the cheek. "Please, do enjoy the feast."

"Who was that? Wasn't the Grand Duke Riddle?" Harry munched on the tart, eyeing his instructor under a new light. Who knew this silent woman had so many connections with people high above?

"Yes, Grand Duke indeed," Rolanda replied, unease creeping into her voice. Her instincts never failed her once. And now, her instincts were telling her something was off about that young man. "Grand Duke indeed."

* * *

 _Aboard the Ship_

Hermione was just back from her little trip to the bathroom when she was throttled to the side.

The blow clouded her vision, knocking the breath out of her lungs, but she somehow managed to stand up – only to be thrown back into the wall again. Her back was ablaze with pain. She noticed that she was now lying on the wall when she should've slid off from it. It was as if the centre of gravity itself had moved. Shivering, Hermione stood, her arms held out carefully in case she was to balance herself again.

With a loud creak, Hermione was swept off her feet...yet again. Thankful that she was prepared for the jostling, Hermione crawled towards the door, fighting against gravity that oh-so terribly wanted to pull her down.

Hermione gasped when her hands slipped against the moist floor, but soon regained equilibrium and used her legs to push herself against the door.

The little window at the top of the door slid open, grey eyes peaking in the seemingly vacant room.

"Where are you?" Abraxas inquired, a flash of unease running though his stomach.

A small squeak escaped her mouth, but it went unnoticed. Hermione pressed herself against the door. Her shoes caught a crack in he flooring. Trying hard not to let her foot slip against the moist floor, least she allow herself to be throttled against the wall again, and perhaps injure her back for real this time.

Those grey eyes flicked downwards, crinkling merrily when they landed on the girl pushing against the door, scrunching her face like a woman in labour.

"Malfoy, what's going on?"

"Oh that's just Lestrange trying to deport in he storm. Say, Carrow, think you can get a bottle of Old Ogden's from the kitchen? Think Dobby hid it under the sink."

"'Course. Right away."

Hermione sincerely wished for Lestrange to tip the boat over, so that the bastard will be throttled into the wall. Unfortunately for Hermione, because the boat was tilted towards her, all the bastard had to do was lean on the door.

Rubbing at her twitching eyebrow, Hermione reached for the tiny window, curling her fingers over the ridge. When she was sure she had a tight grip, she pulled herself up, pushed her other hand through the window and made a grab at the man's hair.

"Let me out," Hermione said gleefully, tugging at his hair harshly, making him cry out in pain. "Let me out, or be sure to be bald in the next few moments."

"I won't! I can't! Let go you bitch!" Abraxas wailed, scratching at the madwoman's small hands, although he felt guilty at the red nail marks. After all, 3 years of pirate life was nothing compared to 22 years of gentlemanly brainwash-education.

With a final yank, a patch of blond hair was ripped out from his scalp. The man let out a whimper, fumbling at the bald patch. Hermione watched the fine blond hair between her fingers with a sick sort of pleasure as she let them fall on the floor.

"That the best you got?" The man sobbed. Before he retreated, Hermione caught his hair yet again.

"Let me out."

"No."

With a loud bang, the door opened.

Hermione lunged towards the man, closing her fingers around his neck as she pushed him down on the floor.

"You son of a bitch," Hermione seethed, watching Abraxas splutter and gasp for air. She dug her knees into his stomach a little more. Now he was clawing at her hands. The two slid down the corridor while still clutching each other's hair, each doing their best to tug it out of its roots.

 _Oh god_ , Hermione widened her eyes, a gasp leaving her lips as they slid towards the dead end of the corridor. Clutching her head and pushing the body beneath her forward. With a sickening crunch, the Blonde went limp, his eyes rolling back in his head.

 _Oh god, oh god_. She felt the boat tip backwards. Both of them were throttled against the wall. Hermione sat on top of her captor, dazed, until she finally snapped out of it and scrambled towards the door which she hoped would lead her outside.

Indeed it was storming outside.

Hermione was drenched in a matter of moment, her frizzy matter of a hair plastered onto her skin like a mop, the flimsy material of her dress making the cold unbearable. She revelled in the freedom, revelled at the feeling of large, thick raindrops splattering onto her face. The sky was dark, so she presumed it was early in the morning. Oh how she worried the state her father would be in!

Running across the deck —more like sliding— Hermione made quick work with the ropes that tied the emergency boats to the deck. She hopped in carefully, and was about to drop...but the hook had no opening. In frustration, Hermione shook the hook with a scream.

"Ah, you can't do that."

In the rain, clutching at his bleeding head and nursing a swollen eye was Malfoy. It was frightening in a way. He resembled a zombie by the way he hobbled and wobbled. Hermione caught sight of the bald patch on his scalp from earlier but the sight of it gave her no more pleasure than the sight of spiders giving birth.

"You need to press a little lever" —here he made a small motion with his index finger— "in our Lord's room." A horrifying grin split his face

Hermione stared at the man. _He might've smacked_ _his head a bit too hard_. Without breaking eye contact, Hermione reached down, her hand in search for anything, _anything_ that might distract him while she escaped. _There_. She threw the hook, not waiting to see if it had hit its mark. The shriek of the man was enough.

Tears started slipping from her eyes as she ran through a door. What had she done exactly to earn such a horrible day? The books, was it? Or was it the apple? It was rotten, for gods sake! It hardly counted!

As she was busy wiping away her tears, she didn't realise the figure lingering in the hallway.

The two both gave a small gasp, going very still. The splatter of the rain faded out, now a mere hum in the air. Hermione's eyes widened further; the young man was almost a duplicate of Malfoy.

"Who...who are you?" _Stupid question Hermione._ _Stupid question_.

"I...I am D...Damon," The man replied in a trembling voice. "And who might you be?"

"Hermione. Damon," She replied a little breathlessly. She fiddled with the hem of the laces, suddenly conscious of her looks. "I need to get to the Captain's room. Do you know where it is?"

"Of course!" The man —Damon— cried. Hermione noticed tears swelling in his eyes.

"Excuse me, are you, _are you crying?_ "

"Oh, am I?" Damon wiped the year with his sleeve. "I'm sorry, but it's been a while since someone's talked to me. Come along, it's this way."

Later, Hermione would wonder what on earth caused her to follow this man, this man who just happened to loiter in the hallway without any clear intention. He's exactly what a stranger should behave like, if not similar in looks. A cliché look for a stranger would be (she thought for a moment) —perfectly groomed hair, suspiciously straight and white teeth, tailored clothes, and always has a candy in handy. That was her image of a typical 'dangerous' stranger.

Hermione eyes his clothes. Good quality, if a bit battered. The hems were frayed, yellow tinted here and there. Perhaps he was another of Voldemort's lackeys. But then, what kind of lackey would betray it's master by helping a sort-of prisoner escape? Even if it was unintentional, why tell a random girl the whereabouts of the captain's cabin?

Damon lead her down a series of staircases (who knew the insides of a ship could be so spacious?) before stopping in front of a plain green door.

"Well this is it. It was wonderful, absolutely _delightful_ to talk to you miss." He said, wiping away a tear. "Adieu!"

"Wait! I don't..." She cried out, following him around the corner only to find Damon had seemingly vanished into thin air. _That's that then. This is it._ The door opened surprisingly honestly. No booby traps, no locks, no guards. Hermione hurried into the room and was stunned by its atmosphere. This room should belong to Grindelwald, for crying out loud, not a petty wannabe Lord. Silver, silver everywhere, running along the ceiling and the roof of the bed like a thousand shooting stars falling on earth. She was drunk in the sea of deep green, a small forest in the midst of the sea. She wondered in, standing in the middle of the room, twirling around and around in hopes to capture every beauty of the room she stood in. For a moment, she forgot Voldemort. Grindelwald. The cast system which she was at the bottom of. The small problems she hadn't realised were eating away at her heart.

The lever Malfoy talked about was on the wall beside the door. With little effort, Hermione pushed it down before running outside. Accompanied by a loud groan, the ship rattled, making Hermione clutch onto the rail of the stairway until it stopped. The rain seemed to increase in its vigorousness, transparent bullets ruthlessly smashing into the wooden deck. Howling with joy inside, Hermione ran over to the emergency boats when she tripped over a loose piece of wood and smashed her head hard. Nursing her bleeding nose, Hermione resumed running towards the emergency boats when a loud bang ricocheted the air. A strangled gasp escaped Hermione as she fell. Her hand fumbled for her right shoulder, searching for the source of the blazing pain. Pulling it away, Hermione watched dark red blood mixed with her nose bleed slicked on her fingers.

A tall figure stood in the rain, a silver hand gun pointed firmly against her as Lord Voldemort advanced. Hermione crawled away before bursting into a run. The cold rain cause her head to throb in a starting headache, her numb limbs bruising as they smacked against the hard floor. Never before had she ran this much. She had stitches along side her abdomen, her lungs barely holding together as she gulped for air. She was no longer aiming for the boat; she was thinking of throwing herself into the ocean, not caring much for surviving anymore. The man had a gun, what more was she to expect other than holes through her heart?

Another shot was fired, this time grazing her ear. She didn't bother to check if it was alright; her mind was utterly focused on the black, swarming mass of water below her.

The ocean was a grotesque creature. Not at all what she'd imagined as a child up in the towers of her grandparents residence, nor was it even close to the one she'd seen everyday, watching her father go and return. If the sea she'd known was an angel, the one she faced was a devil. You don't willingly jump into the arms of the devil. _Then what is it that I am doing?_ The waves were like thick trunks of a serpent, all eagerly opening their bottomless mouths to swallow her whole.

"Go on," she heard Voldemort say through the wind, but it might've been her imagination. " _Jump_."

So she did.

Her body crashed through the layers of concrete, the blackness soon following to greet her in an unwelcome embrace. They were all too eager to get past her sealed lips, down past her nostrils and into her lungs. Hermione watched her pale hands clawing upwards, as if it knew that was where air existed. Although her soaked clothing a weighed her down, Hermione managed to break through the surface, desperately breathing in air before another wave smothered her.

She'd heard many stories about drowning; her father had told her many times. Every time she listened to it, she silently sorted at those who had drowned. They died because of _panic_. Why would they do that? You try to _decrease_ the use of air, not _increase_ it. How can you possibly die of panic, when it is in your control to feel these things. Hermione often reprimanded the dead (even though she didn't know them) in her bed, imagining what she would've done in that case. Now she knew how it felt first hand, she apologised of all those things she thought. If a tear was able to slip, it would have. It was not _exactly_ the depriving of air that made them panic. It was how easily something they had could slip beyond their reach that made them panic (or at least, in her case). She relaxed a millisecond when she breathed in precious air, and was not prepared for the next wave that deprived her of it. It made her mind go blank. It screamed more, and yet she was not able to provide it. Thus the panic.

Her throat as a sliver of water managed to get through her guard. She saw bubbles escaping through her clouded vision, but she found herself she didn't care. Either way it was death. Perhaps death by bullet was an easier way. Who knew? No one.

Through the haze of her mind, Hermione felt a thick wire coil around her waist, tugging her up. A large bubble escaped her mouth, and with this Hermione went limp. The wire continued to pull her up, tossing her high up in the air before crashing into the deck.

"And I thought I said _carefully_ , Nagini," Voldemort tutted, crouching in front of the broken girl. She was deathly pale (or rather death pale, Voldemort mused), one or two of her ribs broken. Snapping his fingers at a man lurking in the dark, he pointed at the girl before leisurely tugging of his soaked gloves. He watched from aside as Lestrange pumped the girl's chest, trickles of water escaping from the corner of her lips.

A loud splutter indicated Hermione regaining her consciousness. Voldemort turned towards her, waving Lestrange away. He crouched beneath her, opening her eyelids and checking her pupils.

"Ron?" The girl wheezed, attempting to clutch at Voldemort's hand. Scowling, he hid his hands behind his back. Ron? Who the hell is _Ron_? He is not Ron! _But_ , Voldemort chided himself, _it might've been something_ _else. Won? Perhaps the girl is so delirious she thinks she won something? She would've died without him! Or perhaps it was 'on'. Con. Hon._ _Ton. Tom..._ he decided not to go there. However, he would definitely have his men look in for a man named 'Ron'. _Ah, curiosity killed the cat_ , Voldemort chuckled, standing up. He waved his hand at the girl, and soon enough two men scurried along and carried the limp girl.

"To my room," Voldemort ordered, before he himself went over to the edge of the deck. He stood there proudly, his hands clasped behind his back. The rain was now a splatter of water, the fuming clouds above dispersed, showing a fleck of white beyond the grey. The sea was calm, it's gentle motion calming him greatly. Closing his eyes, Tom inhaled the rich scent of salt. Today was a new day. A new start. He was getting close to what he'd chased after all these years, he could feel it's steady hum in the air.

Then he'll truly be the master of death.

 _No one will be able to stop him._

* * *

keep up the reviews to improve my crappy writing! Sorry if there are any weird typos


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